


goodnight alt-right

by servecobwebheadaches



Category: Jreg, The Centricide (Webseries)
Genre: Death, Established Relationship, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Nazis, Not Canon Compliant, Other, Violence, does this even have anything to do with centricide? who knows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:07:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27789469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/servecobwebheadaches/pseuds/servecobwebheadaches
Summary: The sound of the shattering glass attracts a couple stray Nazis, and Commie is ready, a hand on his gun. If he sees someone so much as lay a finger on Ancom, he won’t hesitate to put a bullet between their eyes.
Relationships: Ancom/Commie, Authleft/Libleft, leftist unity - Relationship
Comments: 26
Kudos: 77





	goodnight alt-right

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first fic in this fandom and oh god what have i gotten myself into. girl help.
> 
> shoutout to casey just-folie-a-deux-it for being the beta here even tho she is not involved and has not heard of jreg. casey ur a god.

If he looks at Ancom too long, it is easy to forget why they had bothered to leave the apartment tonight. It’s easy to feel drawn back home, where he could be reading to Ancom in front of the fire, instead of marching into chaos with quem, boots crunching on the snow. A fascist uprising has poured out onto the streets of Vancouver, and direct action must be taken. Commie knows this. He also knows that the lack of planning of the two leftists is irresponsible, but he has allowed the anarchist’s spontaneous spirit to get the better of him. It always does.

So, armed with but a pistol and his bare hands, the communist walks alongside his anarchist counterpart to a crowd of civilian fascists chanting words of racially charged hate. The sky is dark, the only light provided by the torches the ‘protestors’ wield. When Commie looks over, there is a grin on Ancom’s face, and qui looks ready to put the baseball bat over quis shoulder to good use.

“Anarkiddie,” Commie sighs, “we should not be here now.”

The grin on quis face falls to a frown. “What’re you talking about? It’s always a good time to beat up Nazis.”

“Yes, but we have no plan. There are a thousand of them for each of us.”

Ancom hand-waves these concerns away. “The goal’s to get rid of the loudest ones. And, besides, the less of them the better. We take out as many as possible.”

Commie sighs again. “You are right, comrade. But this is . . . irrational.”

“We just need to find who’s pulling the strings. Who organized this? Then the whole thing falls apart; believe me, I’ve done this before.”

“This seems foolish.”

“Don’t underestimate me,” Ancom says, and pulls quis bandana up over quis nose. “Now come on, let’s go bash their brains in.”

The only good fascist is a dead one, Commie reasons to himself, and with that, follows Ancom out into the city street from the alley they had been sequestered to. There are Nazis all around, armbands and all, seemingly rabidly impassioned in their chants about the Jews, about white pride. It is no wonder Ancom can’t resist fighting at these events.

Commie watches Ancom spray paint over the Swastikas plastered on storefronts, watches quem toss a brick through a window of what appears to be some corporate establishment. It’s quite inspiring, Commie has to admit, although he knows the impact is fleeting and minute. The sound of the shattering glass attracts a couple stray Nazis, and Commie is ready, a hand on his gun. If he sees someone so much as lay a finger on Ancom, he won’t hesitate to put a bullet between their eyes. This turns out to be unnecessary, however, as Ancom handles them easily. A couple swings of quis bat and a particularly hard upper hook leaves the two Nazis in a pile on the ground. Commie is a bit surprised at the show of force from the (relatively) small anarchist, but it makes him relax slightly. Ancom can handle quemself, and Commie knows how upset qui gets if he tries to fight quis battles for quem.

“Come on, let’s keep moving,” Ancom says, and once again, Commie follows.

It isn’t long before they’re swarmed by angry Nazis. Ancom isn’t exactly blending in, baseball bat over quis shoulder, which is enough for the fascists to instigate a fight. All it takes is a single fascist to say, “Hey, this fucker’s here to cause trouble.” Ancom promptly whacks him over the head, but then there are five, six, seven, eight Nazis surrounding quem, and a quick punch lands on Ancom’s jaw—

That Nazi’s neck snaps beneath Commie’s hands not a moment later. The body falls to the ground, but it is hardly noticed. It is a struggle to push through the wall of Nazis between him and Ancom now, but their spines are easy to snap. He can hear the anarchist spit, “Fuck off, Nazi scum,” and the sound of quis bat against bone. Yet he can’t see quem anymore, and a bit of panic begins to bloom in his throat. Ancom is smaller than these Nazis and not as strong, and Commie is supposed to be there to protect quem, make sure qui isn’t hurt.

There is no time for pondering or regrets. Just as he feared, there’s too many for him to be fighting alone. Most are untrained and easy to defeat, but Commie is quickly feeling that methodically knocking out—or perhaps killing—the crowd of Nazis, one by one, is of no use. He fleetingly thinks of the waste of energy this is, to be fighting in the streets and not even in the name of revolution. Killing a Nazi, destroying a single organized event—it is ignorant to think this will bring class freedom. His time would be much better spent with fellow Marxist-Leninists than these fascists. This is what he gets for indulging in his anarchist instead of trusting the theory he so meticulously studies. But, alas, he has to be here for Ancom, has to keep quem safe, somehow.

He finally reaches for his gun when he hears the dreaded sound of the anarchist’s screech, and the sound of quis bat falling to the pavement. Anyone standing between him and Ancom is a dead man, now. After shooting a Nazi in the back of the head, many back off. He considers shooting the runners in the back as they go, but decides to save the bullets.

Another Nazi’s spine is in pieces, another downed with a steel-toed boot to the groin, followed by a stomp to the neck. Commie can begin to see the situation his anarchist is in, and his heart rate really begins to pick up. Ancom’s being backed up into a wall, encircled by five knife-wielding fascists. Quis fists are up, boldly still ready to fight, but Commie sees the uncharacteristic fear in quis eyes.

It’s intolerable.

Suddenly the anarchist finds Commie’s eyes over the shoulder of a Nazi, and quis chin trembles. “T-tankie,” Ancom squeaks out.

Commie sends a bullet through the skulls of three of them before the other two run off. He’s a bit late, however—when the first bullet fired, Ancom’s slashed with a knife across the back of the knee. Commie hears quem cry out and slowly sink down to the ground where the Nazi’s bodies lay. “You drop weapon and run,” Commie snarls at the two still standing. They obey, scuttling back into an alley like rats. With suspicion, he turns around, ready to shoot anyone behind them, but the scene is deserted—aside from the bodies in the street. He reluctantly drops his gun and approaches Ancom.

“Tankie?” Ancom says again. The communist compulsively looks over his shoulder for any threats while reaching a hand out to Ancom.

“Да, it is me. You must stand, comrade. It is time to go home.”

Ancom takes his hand. Quis palm is sweaty, fingers shaking, and Commie wants to stand there and just hold quem until quis trembling subsides. It is too vulnerable to stay out here now, though, where they can still hear the Nazi rally in the distance, part of the crowd still going strong. Ancom stands, but promptly stumbles with a wince. Commie takes a brief moment to look at quem, and it registers how serious quis injury is. There’s a small puddle of blood on the pavement where qui had been sitting, and some still actively running down quis shin. Qui can’t hold any weight on the leg, and qui reaches forward to grasp onto Commie’s coat to prevent from falling over. Commie wraps an arm around quem to hold quem up, and it is clear qui needs it.

“Sorry,” Ancom mumbles, and attempts to straighten up, only resulting in quem gasping in pain.

“It is quite alright, Anarkiddie.”

“I-I’ve lost my bat. I think you, uh, killed the guy who took it, so maybe I can just go find the body really quick—”

“Nonsense. I am taking you home now. You are badly injured.”

“It’s just a cut, it doesn’t hurt that bad.”

“You can hardly walk and are unarmed. We are leaving. Now.” With a firm grip on the anarchist, Commie attempts to steer them back in the direction they arrived from, only resulting in Ancom tripping and falling into his side.

“Fuck, hold on a second,” Ancom says. Qui is tightly holding onto Commie’s arm, and he can see quis legs shaking. Quis lips are parted, slightly out of breath, and quis skin is a bit too pale.

“Look at you. I knew we should not have come,” Commie berates lightly. With ease he scoops the anarchist up. Qui is easy to carry, small and somewhat delicate against his chest. Quis arms quickly—instinctively—loop loosely around his neck.

“Hey, hey, put me down. You’ve done enough for me already tonight. I can take care of myself,” Ancom says.

Commie has already begun briskly walking off, keeping a steady grip on Ancom, trying not to jostle quem too much. “No. You are hurt. You must allow me to care for you.”

Ancom is looking up at him with wide eyes that make Commie feel a bit like he’s melting. “You always do things like this,” qui says, but it’s softer than before, less rebellious.

“What?”

“You act like you have to protect me when I’m fine—”

“I do, Anarkiddie. You are tired and in pain, да? You would prefer going back to apartment alone?”

Ancom hides quis face in his chest. “No, I didn’t mean it like that. I just wish you—you realized I’m capable of doing things like this by myself.”

“Of course you are. But it is unnecessary. I do not like you being in danger by yourself.”

“I think you like it too much when I need your help,” Ancom says with a huff.

“Ah, but I thought my help was not needed,” Commie retorts, but he mentally admits Ancom has a point. He supposes he likes to feel needed, especially by Ancom, and he likes the thrill of strength and power he feels when he can prevent quem from ever being in a situation where harm is a possibility. He likes the intimidation he can use to get people to stay away from Ancom. He likes seeing the look of fear the Nazis gave him before fleeing, and he likes getting the look of relief from Ancom when qui is out of danger. It’s all in response to the rage he feels when Ancom is threatened, when someone speaks or looks at quem in the wrong way, let alone touches quem. And, of course, this feeling now, of holding Ancom close, knowing he’s keeping quem safe—it’s exhilarating.

“Tonight it was. I’m glad you were there,” Ancom says.

For a moment, it’s nearly silent. Commie can feel the warmth of Ancom’s breath on his chest, and looks down to find quis eyes closed, snow falling on quis eyelashes. One of quis cheeks is a bit swollen and red, starting to bruise. He looks back behind them, seeing his own boot prints in the snow accompanied by occasional drops of blood. Otherwise, all is mostly calm.

Ancom shifts slightly, pressing quis nose into his chest. “You’re warm,” qui sighs.

“Are you cold? We will be home soon.”

Ancom hums. “Home. Just you and me.”

“Да.”

“You know I love you, Tankie. Even if you are overprotective.”

“I have to protect you. I could not go on without you,” Commie says, painfully honest. On top of all the control he feels when it comes to protecting quem, there’s fear, too. The idea of having the anarchist taken from him seems too much to bear.

“Well, you won’t have to. I think . . . you’re good at protecting me.”

“Not nearly good enough,” Commie mutters. “I have failed you tonight. You are hurt.”

“It could’ve been a lot worse.”

“Are you in pain?”

“A bit. I wouldn’t be letting you carry me like this if I wasn’t.”

“Are you not comfortable?”

“No, I’m fine. It’s fine. It’s nice, really . . .” Ancom says, trailing off.

Commie agrees. Sometimes he hesitates and overthinks something as simple as reaching out and touching quem, at home, in bed. Together. Sometimes he feels he won’t be able to breathe if he lets go.

They arrive at the apartment building, and, carrying Ancom up the stairs, Commie suddenly feels overwhelmed with exhaustion. They’re safe now, and there is no threat. He rests Ancom on the couch as soon he can, and brushes some snow out of quis hair before straightening.

“Tankie? We can go to bed soon, right? You don’t have to go anywhere?”

Commie nods, removing his coat. “Soon, Anarkiddie. I must clean your wound first.”

He moves to hang his coat by the door, but hesitates with a grimace. There’s blood on the arms, most likely from Ancom, and some brain matter of a Nazi hanging off the side. He quickly tosses it to the pile of dirty laundry before retrieving a first aid kit and returning to Ancom.

Qui has curled in on quemself on the couch, looking as small as ever, and Commie hears quem let out a tiny whimper. As he approaches, qui looks up at him, and there are tears running down quis cheeks. Commie’s back to feeling wide awake, alarmed, and kneels in front of Ancom. “What is it, Anarkiddie? You are in pain? You are still bleeding. I need to see your wound.”

“It’s not that,” qui says, barely above a whisper. Qui doesn’t protest as Commie rolls up quis pant leg and begins cleaning up the blood that has begun to dry.

“Then what? Have I upset you?”

“No,” qui replies, then flinches and lets out a noise of pain. Commie pulls away from the wound he has just touched and uses a thumb to brush away a tear off of Ancom’s face. He looks down into Ancom’s welled-up eyes, awaiting an answer. Qui looks away and says, “It’s nothing. It’s stupid.”

“You do not cry over nothing. I will bring you vodka. You will feel better.”

“O-okay,” Ancom says, sniffling. Commie goes to the kitchen, retrieves a glass, keeping an eye on Ancom. He’s concerned that qui has sustained an injury somewhere else, maybe something internal, that’s bringing quem this much pain.

He hands them the full glass, concern heightening at the sight of quis fingers still shaking. “Drink, comrade,” he says, and resumes his work on the open wound. It isn’t very deep, much to his relief, but any contact has Ancom jerking away from him. “Now tell me. What are your tears for?”

Ancom takes a sip of the vodka and coughs. “It’s just–I was so scared. This time it was serious, and I don’t know what I would’ve done without you, and usually I don’t like it when you try to fight people for me, but—but I needed you. I was in over my head and I thought—I thought they might kill me be-before you—” Qui takes a sharp inhale, and cuts quemself off.

Commie carefully applies antiseptic over the wound, trying to keep his touch as light as possible. He feels nothing but guilt. “I should have shot faster,” he says.

“W-what?”

“I had Nazis in front of me and I hesitated. I let you fight first. Mistake.”

“I—I don’t think there’s much more you could’ve done—”

“I will shoot before they get to you. Next time,” Commie promises. He opens a bandage, gently presses it against the wound. Ancom winces.

“You’re scary,” qui whispers.

“I did not mean to hurt you,” Commie says.

“I just mean when it comes to the Nazis. I usually just break their bones. You always go for the kill.”

“Spine is bone.” He finishes making sure the bandage is tightly stuck on, takes the vodka from Ancom’s hands, and sips it himself. “I never want you to be scared like this again.”

“I don’t think I want to go to these . . . events alone anymore,” Ancom says.

“Good. We can stay home and read theory instead.”

Ancom rolls quis eyes. “Not when there are Nazis out on the streets! I don’t regret going, you know, it’s just nice to have someone there to shoot them. If I need it.”

“Of course. If you insist on going,” Commie sighs, “I will look after you.” He sits beside Ancom, intent on finishing the drink in his hand before taking quem to bed. Ancom shifts to lay quis head on his thigh, giving him long, slow blinks.

“I think . . . maybe I would like that,” Ancom says, biting quis lip.

Commie smiles down at quem. Perhaps, after all, the night contains some victory for him. He reaches with his free hand to softly run his fingers along Ancom’s jaw, feeling the heat radiate from the bruise forming there. “I love you,” he says, and watches the corners of Ancom’s lips turn up. Soon, he will put his gun away and rest while he can. It won’t be long before his anarchist forgets this feeling of fear and puts quemself in harm’s way again. When the time comes, Commie will be ready, with a loaded pistol and a thirst for fascist blood. For now, though, he gives in to the near-suffocating amount of affection he feels, stroking Ancom’s hair and allowing quem to fall asleep in his lap.

**Author's Note:**

> please say anything in comment. it is my prime source of dopamine


End file.
